


Blood Poetry

by OhTigridia



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Jealousy, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Usual warnings that apply to Hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhTigridia/pseuds/OhTigridia
Summary: Ah, so this is what has become of me. Homare thinks, staring weakly at the mess of blood and petals that pool in the sink.Perhaps now he sees why one may call this beautiful. The tortured artist, staring into the eyes of his own reflection, bloodied petals sticking to the paleness of his lips.Perhaps one may comment on the shade of red - scarlet, crimson, how it splashes in sporadic drops against the white porcelain of the sink. Yes, it is the image of beauty, suffocated, choking on love of that one Hisoka Mikage, who once you could write a thousand words for.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99





	Blood Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drafts literally forever and I finally finished it...

_“You’re in pain aren’t you?...” Hisoka whispers. His breath is heavy, caught on his lips as he tilts his head, then pushes up to Homare’s face. The space between them is too close, and yet too far all the same. It’s intoxicating in a way that Homare feels as if he could die here, captured within the crosshairs of Hisoka's heavenly gaze. Lured by the way he glances at him, his visible eye half lidded as he places his hands against Homare’s face. It feels almost akin to the pain of frost burn._

_“You’re just lonely aren’t you?..” He asks, and stares directly into his eyes as if he could see right through him. Homare can only nod, swallowing the tension that rises in his throat._

_With that, Hisoka pauses, moving a hand to play with the longer strand of his hair thoughtfully._

_“So… You’re just using me to make yourself believe you’re good enough to care for someone, aren’t you?” He whispers in sudden accusation, voice like ice as he purrs his words. “Because you think I’m easy? You think I’m lost, and will settle for anyone who takes advantage of my vulnerability?”_

_His words run cold in his blood, clenching at his heart. Homare starts, wishing to pull away. Run before he can hear what more his beloved has to say, but his body feels heavy. Frozen into place, as Hisoka traces the side of his face with his finger, a cruel smirk playing upon his lips._

_“...And do you really think I care for you in the same way?” He smiles a little darkly, tilting his head with a feigned innocence. “Do you think I really care about you at all?”_

_All at once, Homare feels at a loss for words, stuttering in offence, and the sorry feeling of heartbreak. It almost feels suffocating, as Hisoka squints, pushing his face closer until he breathes cruelly into Homare’s neck._

_“..Mmm? Well do you?”_

Homare wakes up with a start, gasping for air that fails to reach him. He feels tears sting his eyes as hot tears burn his cheeks. He’s clutching his chest in pain, trembling from the suffocation as he coughs in violent bloodied chokes. 

His eyes screw shut, pulled down in pain from the awful jerked movements his body makes in coughing. Blindly, he reaches with a hand to grasp the glass on his bedside, trying to control the coughs enough to drink in a hope they will cease.

He breathes, in and out - slowly with care, as each breath rips in his throat. It is a repetitive agony that Homare has become accustomed to by now, but it never gets any easier to cope with. As he opens his bundled fists, he stares at the mess that stains them. Delicate petals with withered edges, drowned in crimson blood. 

This condition developed slowly at first, starting with hayfeverish symptoms. He can remember the first signs of this disease, the consistent itching at the back of his throat like toxic pollen. It became more painful over time.

It has been around a month since the flowers first came, and at that point the symptoms were unmistakable. 

He’d heard those tales of death by unrequited love. They are written most beautifully, in metaphors and poetry to marvel at, though it is without a doubt, a slow and miserable way to die. An overromanticized thing - drowning in your lone misery. 

As he stared down at the mess of petals in his hands for the first time, he was reminded of when he was a curious child. He’d go slicing his fingers on rose thorns, crying at the blood, but this time there was no one here to scold him for it. He sighs at this painful isolation, wishing partly that he was as lonesome as he was back then. In the end someone will always get hurt when it comes to him.

Still the petals grow larger and more intolerable, and Homare is left to ponder such things he has never considered before. He wonders how long he has until the world fades to black, with the hopeless doubt of Hisoka ever returning his feelings. He coughs, as the itching begins to build in his throat again at the thought of his name. 

He’d always thought he’d live a long life, travelling the world and amounting sights of illustrious art. Perhaps now those dreams shall simply amount to dust and ashes.

As the coughs rip through his throat once more, he half wonders if death is anywhere near as beautiful as it is when scripted into sonnets.

\---

Hisoka is a beautiful curse. His life is marred with mystery, enshrouding him in some alluring sense of darkness. It calls to Homare again and again, to feed him, and to take care of this creature that did not know itself, where it came from. He pities him, as his dream self did accuse, and maybe once there was a twisted sense of self gratification from this whole game, but in the present he believes it all to be pure love. 

A lot has changed in the years they’ve known each other, and it directly impacts his feelings for him, that only grow stronger.

He’d carried his burdens, rocked him to sleep at night when nightmares thrashed in his little head. He cares for him truly, but of course, that only makes this whole predicament more painful.

One of the key features of this place is that you are never truly alone. As he walks from his room, he spots the students setting off for school, whilst Tasuku heads in after his early morning jog. It was a thing Homare had always treasured, this busy home, bustling with life. It is warm, kind, and much more graciously populated than his life prior. At every turn is there a face up to something or other, and Homare should usually find almost anyone easy enough to speak to. 

Though perhaps now it can have its downsides, for if you attempt to avoid someone, they shall surely appear where you do not expect. 

Like Hisoka, who would usually be nestled in the grass at this hour, the wind sweeping his bangs as the sun slips across his sleeping figure. That image alone is difficult to bear, without the reality of Hisoka’s current whereabouts.

As Homare turns into the kitchen, wishing only for a mug of tea and breakfast, Hisoka sits quietly in the lap of Azuma. He places marshmallows in his mouth while Azuma brushes his hair absently, smiling down at him with a gaze brimming with affection. Of course, Hisoka spends many mornings and nights with Azuma - this should not come as such a terrible surprise, and yet it seems to knock all the air from his lungs. He swallows hard, but tears spike in his eyes at the pain of this restriction. All at once, Azuma’s eyes are on his, as his hand rests quietly on Hisoka’s shoulder. 

“Good morning Homare, are you alright?” He asks, his voice lilted with the tone of his usual kindness mixing with concern.

“I am quite alright!” He insists, hoping the coarseness of his voice does not betray him. “I think I might be coming down with a little cold, that is all!”

“..I see, well please look after yourself…” Azuma looks unconvinced, Hisoka turning his eyes up as he rubs them sleepily. He stares almost accusatory, the lime of his eyes cold and deadly curious. 

How Homare almost wishes he’d never lay his eyes on him again, and yet feels that desolate conflict tightening his chest with the wrath of anemones. 

_Ah, rather he wishes he’d only look at him with the eyes of love._

“I’ll just make myself some tea I think…” Homare mutters, a weak smile playing on his lips as he heads further into the kitchen. 

He plates a simple breakfast with black tea, wishing only to keep his strength up, though as he ghosts around the appliances he cannot help but watch the pair as they sit at the table. 

He notices how Hisoka leans all his weight into Azuma’s chest, his head resting sluggishly upon his shoulder. He imagines how his breathing should be, so tender, so close to his troupe member’s neck. How cruel and revolting of him to imagine such a thing. He bites down hard upon his lip in disgrace of himself, though it only pushes the flowers up. They scratch and claw at his throat with an angry burning, an insistence that cannot be ignored as it labours his breathing.

He only wants to get away from this sight that does spite him. To walk past them without a further word, though he is once again interrupted by Azuma’s voice. 

“You can join us if you like.” He suggests, surely meaning no harm, though feeling rather left out, Homare wishes he could rather take Azuma’s place. His jealousy is rampant, yet makes him feel awfully cruel. It is a feeling he comes to despise more than anything.

He shakes his head with a smile, swallowing bitter tea along with bloodied pollen. “I think I shall pass this morning...”

—

Weeks pass. The condition ruptures deep inside him, only worsening as flowers grow vines, twisting around his lungs. He spits whole blooms, green leaves with razor sharp edges that scratch his throat most venomously. 

He hides it like another secret. A game where he is but a boy again, hiding things in boxes under his bed where his grandmother shall not find them. If he were just a child playing games, playing an act of rebellion, perhaps it would be simpler. 

Unfortunately, Hisoka is closely observant, his eyes always watching despite how he may look to be. In winter practice, he is acutely aware of how he stares, feeling oddly like prey in the cat’s paws. How he watches, even from far stage left, a pressuring constant surveillance. 

He is not the first to comment on Homare’s illness, but he brushes them off, insistent upon the common cold. It is winter of course, it is easy to catch such an ailment. His troupe mates glance cautiously among themselves, though they often are too quick to drop a touchy subject. There is concern and care within them, shown in careful practices, and sending their blessings that he should get well soon. 

Nevertheless, practice imposes its difficulties. When at all other hours he can at least attempt to find time to breathe away from Hisoka, in practice it is inevitable they should be together.

For this performance, they play two friends, a relationship most likely written on how everyone else views them. They watch out for each other, his character and Hisoka’s character spending more time with each other than they do apart. Truly, it mirrors their reality, though not the whole picture that Homare has come to know by falling for him as more than a friend.

Homare wishes he could spend time with Hisoka so seamlessly again, without the burden that is unrequited love.

For Hisoka is a greatly talented actor. Every gesture, Homare admires for the great piece of art that he is, and yet it stings with the intensity of gazing into the sun.

When Hisoka scrunches his face, straightens his posture and footstance. Within a quick moment, he has transformed into his role, that half asleep expression morphing to become more alert. Homare always finds it impressive, his eyes drawn to his lips as he speaks the crafted words of wonder his character speaks.

He feels paled in comparison, his character conversing with Hisoka’s. Behind every line there is unwanted pain, his words breathy from the illness, though he keeps in time with Hisoka’s pace the best he can. 

_“I haven’t felt so elated in such a long time._ ” Hisoka says airily, sending a bright shimmer in the green jewel of his visible eye. His hair is blown slightly as he tosses his head, a silver sheet that catches light in a mystical way. He looks taller, his figure straight and hands extended into the golden rays of artificial sunlight, as if he could reach out and grasp them. They dance on his fingertips, his expression fond and distant, with a small curvature of a smile on his lips as he speaks. _“I wonder… if perhaps I have fallen in love.”_ He says absently, his voice filled with sweet admiration. 

It is like a cupid’s arrow, that line strikes his heart without fail every time. The painstaking irony of Hisoka’s character having fallen for someone he cannot have, Homare only sees himself in his initial elation, and how it quickly turns to sorrow like wilted flowers.

As he begins to cough, feeling petals tug the back of his throat with adamancy, he quickly excuses himself, hoping nobody cares enough to notice the blood that flecks on his lips.

— 

Alone, the sound of leaky faucets provide his only comfort as he wheezes and splutters blood into the sink. It rips through him agonisingly, until he feels faint and broken, gasping for air as he grips desperately to the sink for support.

 _Ah, so this is what has become of me._ Homare thinks, staring weakly at the mess of blood and petals that pool in the sink.

Perhaps now he sees why one may call this beautiful. The tortured artist, staring into the eyes of his own reflection, bloodied petals sticking to the paleness of his lips. 

Perhaps one may comment on the shade of red - scarlet, crimson, how it splashes in sporadic drops against the white porcelain of the sink. Yes, it is the image of beauty, suffocated, choking on love of that one Hisoka Mikage, who once you could write a thousand words for.

Now his voice is hoarse, painful as each word leaves his lips, a sorry excuse for a poet who has lost all his flamboyance. _Tonight he shall die a tragedy._ He thinks as he feels his eyelids grow heavier.

“Arisu…” Ah, of course the fates would come to curse him in such a manner. How dreadfully unlucky. A sorrow builds at the sight of this angelic saviour, how he wishes he could shield him from such a pitiful display. 

_“Arisu!_ ” Hisoka pleads with a desperation he has not heard before, as Homare feels his vision swim. He presses his arms around him as his legs give out, Hisoka trembling in frantic distress.

“ _Someone.. help..._ ” He calls, though his voice is meak and choked as he sobs, gripping to Homare’s jacket for the life of him.

“ _Please..._ ” He whispers, tears streaming down his face, landing in little drops that splash against Homare’s face.

A drowning image of Ophelia, his lungs hiss within him as his eyes flutter shut, the aching inside him subsiding into a dullness. The last thing he thinks of is how warm Hisoka’s arms are as they hold him close, and how angelically beautiful he is even now.

Whatever words he speaks now don’t quite make sense, as they merge into sorry white noise.

  
  


“No! _Don’t die!”_

_“Please… Can’t lose you too!”_

—  
  


Homare awakes to a distant beeping, the brightness of this room too astounding to be his home at Mankai. He squints from the light in his eyes, taking note of the antiseptic scent as his senses come to. When he shifts a little, he notices the weight against his hip, and the soft breaths of quiet snoring that accompany the weight draped across him.

“Hisoka?” He murmurs, voice raspy yet noticeably less painful than it had been prior. He feels a little dazed, a drowning ebb of confused overwhelm, though this presence that accompanies him feels more comforting than suffocating. It is a feeling of love, unusually fresh like a reborn spring bud. 

With a slow movement, he takes his hand to sift through the strands of Hisoka’s hair, the touch kind on the pads of his fingers. He seems to have regained that old warm and gentle presence as he stirs. 

“Mm… Arisu…” He says, a bright relief lit across his expression. “...Arisu… You’re ok...” He smiles, Homare taking note of how his eyes well with tears that threaten to pour as his lip wobbles.

It lights something within him, a desire to protect him, and wipe such reverent tears from his cheeks. As Hisoka’s gaze burns into Homare’s own, he feels nothing but love, the pain in his throat not insisting any further than it’s after effects. There’s a melting expression scripted on Hisoka’s face that does not hurt, as he picks up one of Homare’s hands. The touch is welcome as his fingers entangle with Homare’s, his thumb smoothing up the sides of his palms. 

“I was worried…” Hisoka mutters. “How do you feel?”  
  
“Tired… though admittedly not as bad as I would expect.” He says calmly, enjoying the touch of Hisoka’s hand on his own. There is a question on the tip of his tongue that desires to be answered. Clear the air of the nature of Hisoka’s feelings toward him, check he is not just stumbling forward into ruin once more, though he allows Hisoka to be slow, swallowed in this quiet intimacy of relief.

“You were out for two days…” Hisoka says hesitantly, chewing at the skin of his lips a little as he pauses. “I thought it was my fault… I should have noticed why you were sick and I should have said something about it earlier... but... I always thought that being in love with you was only going to hurt you… and then I found out that pretending not to be was.. was killing you...”

Homare lets him take his time. He lets him cry, lets him mourn the guilt in his head. He squeezes tight to Hisoka’s hand, leaning the other over to cup his face. He moves his thumb, wiping the tears from his face as they fall in quiet sobs. “Hisoka…” He murmurs gently. “It’s alright…”

“ _It’s not..._ ” He insists. “Everyone I love… gets hurt… I wish you didn’t have to.” 

“My dear Hisoka, that is where you are wrong! It was your love that saved me, was it not? It is the nature of this illness that only the reciprocation of true love can heal it.”

“But-”

“No buts.” He says, pressing his finger against his lips to shush him. 

“Hisoka... I actually hurt someone I cared about dearly myself…” He hesitates. “I still think of all the things I should have said, all these words come to me about what I should have done differently, and it makes me feel so dreadful, like maybe I don’t deserve love either…” He admits, swallowing hard as Hisoka’s eyes meet his own once more.

“...What I suppose I am saying is perhaps we are both a little broken, but we fit well together don’t we?”

Hisoka sniffles, shifting uncomfortably, but after a moment he nods with a timid movement. 

“I love you…” He murmurs, moving his head to bury into Homare’s shoulder. “...I’m sorry...”

“I’m sorry too…” He sighs, brushing a hand through his hair before turning to kiss his forehead. 

Though it is played in subtle keys, kissing him is like breathing again, Homare thinks, as Hisoka smiles. He turns his head, leaning to plant a kiss on Homare's lips, to which he requites in soft little breaths. 


End file.
